How Can She Forget?
by radcgg
Summary: How is she supposed to get over him when every practice she looks at him, sings with him, and loses herself all over again? Rachel/Finn


**Title: How Can She Forget?  
Pairing: Finn/Rachel (oh yes, it is hardcore Finn/Rachel)  
Rating: R (no question on this one - yes there are sexual references)  
Summary: How is she supposed to get over him when every practice she looks at him, sings with him and loses herself all over again?  
Word Count: 1083  
Spoilers: Slightly for 107 but blink and you'll miss it. If you've seen 106, you're gold.  
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or Finn or Rachel. Or Puck, or Quinn, or Mr. Schuester. But they are all awesome.**

AN: Feedback is love! :)

How is she supposed to get over him?

Every Glee practice she looks at him, sings with him and loses herself all over again.

His eyes are just so brown and they look straight back into hers. When their voices melt and spin on their own, what can she do? When their vowels match up perfectly and she feels the pitch flow through her body from her toe nails all the way to the ends of her hair, how can she ignore that?

And what about (while all that is happening) when he reaches for her and her heart flip-flops in her chest.

Or when his hand clasps her and nothing exists except for him and the harmony they make together.

What about when his arm wraps around her waist and they spin together? How can she just forget about the shiver that runs along her side as his fingers slowly glide away from her body (like he wants to stay connected to her for as long as he can).

Or when he is flush against her back, arms raised, or clinging as the song requires. What can she do about the extremely private pull that starts deep within her body?

More than all of that, how can she move past the vivid memories of his kisses? All soft, clean, heartfelt and beautiful.

Or the sound of his voice as he admitted to her just a few days ago that his feelings for her are real. Words, at that time, which hurt her more than she thought ever possible. (She'd figured when he finally did confess, she'd be ecstatically happy. She'd never contemplated the idea that he might do so out of desperation. Or that his words would not change anything.)

How can she forget all that, when she faces him in class everyday, sings with him everyday?

Only when he stands before her singing words of longing and love meant only for her, when his eyes meet and capture hers, when their voices blend into something so magnificently moving it brings tears, when his mouth is less than a breath away from her own, does she concede. She really has no intention of forgetting.

If they were alone, she wouldn't waste a minute. She would loop one arm and then the other around his neck. She would pull his face down towards her. She would carefully place her lips against his. She would sigh onto his lips as hers catch along the softness there. She would shift ever so slightly and brush her mouth against his again once or twice, before closing over them. She might run her tongue along the seam of his top lip, but only to taste the music that still lingers there. She might even allow her tongue to enter his mouth, gliding softly against his own. She would savour each flavour that she found there in him, sweet and salty, spicy and mild.

She might move her hands so that her fingers could take purchase on his back, feeling the heat slip through his shirt in a beautiful crescendo and decrescendo. Her leg would probably hitch itself up around his hip, if only to give him better access to her mouth (she is so much short than he is).

She might find herself against the choir room wall, back cold from touching the cement walls which ordinarily produce such wonderful acoustics. She would let loose a moan as his lips trailed from hers down to the base of her neck.

Her hands might slip (accidentally, of course) underneath that shirt to touch his skin, so soft and lovely and warm, and to feel it quiver beneath her fingers as they run along, then grasp, then slide.

If they were alone, his shirt might find it's way to the floor, and her own might join it. Her other leg might wrap around his hips to cradle him. Her body might move of its own accord in torturously slow circles over him. She might feel her own arousal seep through the thin material of her skirt. She would feel his as well.

She might whisper that he's everything, and everywhere. And he would respond by seizing her lips once, more desperately than ever before.

She would probably let him touch her, let him peel the skirt and any remaining clothing off of her overheated body. Her feet might find the floor again as she helps him off with his clothes, unbuttoning and pulling to her heart's content. They might lie together on the floor, and he might ask if she's really sure.

"Yes," she would say. And his lips would find hers again before his body would become one with hers. It might hurt for a minute or two, but he would understand that, and rest inside her. Their hearts would beat in time together as her muscles relax around him.

His hand would graze her side, all the way up to her breast, in a way that makes her want to simultaneously scream and sigh. When his fingertips brush over her, she would shiver and moan. The heat would begin again, expanding outward from where their bodies are joined until it engulfs her body and his.

He would begin to move slowly, gliding in and out further each time, in 4/4 time, sending sparks through her. She might start to move with him, arching her hips upwards to meet him, or wrapping her legs around his back and pulling.

She would feel the glorious pain of being so close to completion. She might tell him so. He might guide her hand from his back down between their bodies to show her what to touch and how, might help her by circling around it with his own finger. And it would feel more right than any solo.

She would feel her muscles squeeze around him after that, her back arching hard off the floor, his body pulsing inside hers.

But they're not alone. So she backs away from him, looking briefly at Quinn who has anger and pain in her eyes (along with a healthy dose of annoyance). Her gaze meets with Puck's and he gives her one of his trademark smirks, like he knows what she's been thinking (like he was there inside her head).

Mr. Schuester's voice saves her from all that. "Great job, guys. You must have rehearsed that just like I asked. Letter perfect! See you all tomorrow."

She escapes from the room as quickly as possible.

How can she ever forget all of that?


End file.
